


Snow

by TheSevenPercentSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And a bit amusing, And a bit angry, Christmas, Fluff, I fucking suck at tagging, It's a bit melancholy really, John being awesome and amused, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock hatin' on Christmas insanity in general, Sherlock hatin' on the cold, Weird Fluff, sherlock/john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSevenPercentSolution/pseuds/TheSevenPercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As much as Sherlock detests the cold he loves a particular part of winter; powder white, new snow fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegirlinthedeathfrisbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee/gifts).



> Merry Belated Christmas, Ali.

Sherlock complains about the cold, bitterly. It used to be he’d silently berate the weather in his mind, perpetual scowl on his face as he went about his business. Of late, he complains to John. Loudly. And quietly petulant; forlorn under a mass of blankets dangerously close to the fire when the heating at Baker Street plays up. It seeps into his bones, stupid notions of never being warm again flitting about his skull. 

And yet, as much as he detests the cold he loves a particular part of winter; powder white, new snow fall. He’d watch the drifts build up around the estate as a child then, ignoring that it was in fact _cold_ , walk around in it, fall into it, let it sift through gloved fingers for as long as it took Mummy to send someone to fetch him inside. He very nearly went hypothermic once, sneaking out during a dinner party in the midst of a heavy fall. Mycroft had carried him inside, all chattering teeth and blue lips, hair crisp with a fine layer of ice still trying to slur observations around a delirious grin. He’d copped such an earful once he was discharged from hospital, one of the rare moments where his Father’s cool exterior had cracked under the weight of an emotion he couldn’t understand. 

Now, grown as he was and far more tuned in to the limits of his body (as well as the invention of and investment in decent thermal undergarments) Sherlock likes to sit in the snow and _breathe_. It’s one of the few mechanisms he has for clearing his mind entirely not found in the plunger of a syringe; open to him for a few scant weeks per year. It’s … enough. He sits, bundled in Belstaff, face nestled in scarf, leather encased fingers combing idly through the white, and for a while the constant noise in his head is quiet; an odd, pristine contentment born of frigid inhalations and sluggish muscles. 

On this occasion, the flat rooftop of 221B has become Sherlock’s temporary fortress of solitude after escaping Mrs Hudson’s Christmas Eve to-do. Ridiculous time of year, occasionally interesting cases, didn’t make up for all the idiots scurrying about, wasting what precious little brain power they possessed on which gift the picky Aunt would better appreciate, if their children wanted this toy, that toy or should they just get them both and save ungrateful tears come Christmas morning. False cheer and pasted on smiles, bolstered by alcohol and anxiousness, thin veneer of civility whittled away under the stench of over cooked turkey, cheap perfume and a pre-programmed need to please because _that’s what one does at Christmas_. Needless rubbish, inconsequential drivel. It fills his mind to the brim with a high pitched whine, his usual sharpness honed to a fine blade of derision which everyone suffers, deserved or not. 

Sherlock ruffles a damp gloved hand roughly through already tousled curls and takes a drag on his cigarette as flakes of white flutter about. Their peace is slow to descend upon him this year, a lingering frustration and melancholia having settled over him a few days ago following thoughts of his Mémé. He knows what’s going on, completely appalled at himself for allowing it to have such an effect but he … misses her. Disgustingly clichéd of him to miss a Grandmother long dead at this time of year. He blames John entirely for it of course, this reawakening of sentiment. Dreadful.

“So this is where you’ve hidden yourself then.”

So focused on a thorough mental castigation was he, Sherlock didn’t hear the short run of foul swearing as a certain ex-army doctor had levered himself through the narrow window. Failed to notice said blonde dragging a large all-weather coated picnic blanket through after him or the clink of ceramic against aluminium as two mugs and a thermos followed. Sherlock had observed none of this until words filtered into his hearing, the blanket settled around his shoulders and a small, warm body seated itself next to him. 

Citrus, cinnamon, cloves and heated red wine waft up, nostrils flare and a mug is pressed into his hand. 

Think of the devil and he appears. 

One breath, another follows, something switches over in his head and Sherlock relaxes. The silence envelops him, he sighs quietly with relief; the snow was merely taking its sweet time to work, has nothing to do with John Watson at all. Not one bit. 

They sit and sip. Sherlock smokes, John allows it. Cold turns to warmth even as the snow fall grows heavier; bare trees in Regents becoming frosted in a delicate pale cloak. The ache in Sherlock’s chest lessens and he shamelessly leans into the solid body next to him. John smiles to himself, hides it behind his steaming mug and breathes easier. 

“You can sense snow.”

The companionable quiet is broken long minutes later, Sherlock’s voice slightly ragged around the edges both from disuse and the weather. John cocks his head to the side, eyes tracing the strong profile as he hums in query. 

“Everything drops before a fall; temperature, air pressure, sound dampens. It has a scent as well, slight variations dependent upon geography but one defining factor remains. It smells –“

“—Sharp. Kind of tangy. Not just from the cold.”

Sherlock’s head whips around, blazing focus intent as he searches the weathered face for cues and tells only he can parse. John pretends the thrill skittering along his spine is simply a shiver and not at all to do with Sherlock looking at him like that. John gives the denial up for a bad joke, accepts it and stares out over the park. Sherlock’s lips quirk in one of his rarefied genuine smiles which John catches in his periphery and can’t help but smile in return. 

“Not everyone can differentiate that scent.” Sherlock murmurs wonderingly, something soft entering his gaze.

John turns away from his perusal of the park, smile twitching wider. “Good thing I’m not everyone then isn’t it?”

“You most certainly are not, John Watson.”

“Brilliant. Can we go inside now? I think my bollocks have frozen to the roof.”

“Charming.”

“Yeah, I –“ The remainder of John’s quip is cut short by a pair of cool, slightly chapped lips and soft leather glove against the side of his face. 

Both sets of cheeks are ruddy when they pull away from one another, Sherlock looking delightfully ruffled and John’s mouth tastes like a stale ashtray someone spilled mulled wine into yet the combination is weirdly pleasing. A sly smirk breaks out on the doctor’s face and he jerks his head toward the window. 

“Come on, let’s get back to it before someone comes searching for us or you have to go and get a spatula to scrape me off the tiles.”

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, Sherlock.” 

~~Fin~~

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it my Alisacutioner. Sorry it was so late :/


End file.
